Authors: Colin Forbes
'He preferred not to invade your office until you
arrived. He was quite firm about it.'
'Invite him up immediately.' Tweed sighed. 'He's
come to warn me the photos of the two murdered
women won't be ready for weeks.'
A clatter of feet on the stairs, the door opened,
Hector bounced into the room. His jacket was open
and underneath he was clad in a waistcoat of many
colours, all tasteful.
'Love your waistcoat,' Paula called out. 'Really
unique.'
'Got it in the Old Kent Road. Half price - it had
been displayed for weeks.'
Under his right arm he clutched two cardboard-
backed envelopes. He was still blushing at Paula's
praise, shyly accepted Monica's offer of coffee. He eased his rounded body into the chair Tweed, stand
ing up, had gestured towards after shaking hands.
'Done it,' he said with an air of triumph. 'Worked
dirough the night. Got absorbed. Knew you needed
them urgently.'
Diving into the thicker envelope he produced a
batch of photos. He spread two copies in front of
Tweed, who stared in disbelief. He knew he was look
ing at glossy prints of the two murdered women as
they had appeared alive. Even their long hair falling to
their shoulders looked real.
The whole team gathered round the desk. Paula
peered over his shoulder. She pursed her lips as she
made her remark.
'They were both beautiful. We've got to get the
swine who ruined them.'
'You have seven copies,' Hector went on. 'Don't look now inside this envelope. It will upset you.
They're copies of how they looked before I rebuilt
their faces. Just for your files.'
'But eventually,' Newman said fiercely, 'to show the
jury when we've dragged the killer into court by his
heels.'
The door opened and Howard, the Director,
strolled in. He was a tall man with the beginnings of a stout stomach. He was perfectly dressed in a new
grey Armani suit, pristine white shirt, cuffs shot beyond the sleeves, exposing gold cufflinks. An
Hermes tie decorated the shirt front. Normally ami
able, he had a serious expression as Tweed showed
him the photos.
'Hector has performed a miracle. I told you about
him before I went home last night.'
'Well, write out Mr Humble the cheque I approved.'
Tweed already had his chequebook out, was filling it
in for ten thousand pounds. Hector protested.
'I quoted too much. Seven or eight would be most acceptable.'
'A deal is a deal,' Tweed insisted, writing in the orig
inally agreed amount.
Howard picked up the photos of both women as
they had been in life. He sighed.
'I'd like to have taken either lady to dinner . . .' He gulped. 'God! That was in the worst taste. I do apolo
gize. I'm off back to my office.' He held out his large
pink hand.
'Mr Humble, I've seen the work of experts in other
fields but words fail me to express my admiration for
your quite unique skill.'
He hurried from the office, still embarrassed by his
remark. Hector swallowed the rest of the coffee
Monica had brought him, stood up, the cheque in his
wallet. He grasped hold of Paula, kissed her on both
cheeks.
'You're such a nice lady,' he murmured, blushing.
He darted out of the room before Paula could
decide how to react. Tweed was sorting the photos
into pairs, each pair comprising one photo of each
murdered woman. He instructed Paula as the others
returned to their desks.
'Every member of the team must have a copy.' He
raised his voice. 'But everyone must be discriminating
as to who sees them. Under no circumstances are you to reveal both women were murdered. It's identifica
tion of the victims that is holding up the investigation.'
'So not in the newspapers,' Newman suggested.
'Last place on earth,' Tweed replied emphatically.
'Well,' Newman insisted, 'this morning's
Clarion
has
a big splash headline. It's my top newspaper friend, of
course, Drew Franklin. Show him, Paula.'
TWO UNIDENTIFIED SOCIETY
WOMEN MURDERED
KILLER CUT THEIR THROATS. BEWARE!
Tweed looked up at Paula, who had spread the front page across his desk. Lower down on the same page
something had been cut out. Tweed didn't waste time
reading Franklin's lurid prose as he asked his ques
tion.
'Among the few people who knew about this crime,
who would be your choice for the informant who
accepted a bundle of cash to call Franklin - probably
from a public phone box?'
'Roadblock,' she said promptly. 'Chief Inspector
Reedbeck.'
'My choice too, although we'd never prove it. And
something was cut out lower down. What was it?'
'Archie MacBlade is back in town after weeks
abroad.'
'I've just about heard the name.'
'MacBlade is just about the most successful oil
prospector on the planet,' Newman broke in. 'Back from Brunei, the oil-rich nation in the Far East.
Controlled by the Sultan, perhaps the richest man in
the world. MacBlade prospected in the jungle, brought up the most gigantic gusher ever seen there. The Sultan
is probably three times richer than he was before.'
'I only cut this out because I was impressed by the
picture of him. Struck me as a man of exceptional
character.'
Tweed glanced at the cutting she'd pushed in front
of him. He agreed with her estimate. The photograph was of a man with shaggy hair, piercing eyes under
bushy brows, a Roman nose, a shaggy moustache and
a wide mouth, below that a strong jaw. He had a
pleasant smile. Tweed nodded, pushed the cutting
back to her.
'I agree,' he said in a bored voice, 'but it's nothing to
do with our present problem . . .'
The phone rang. Monica picked it up, listened,
looked excited as she pointed to Tweed's phone.
'You might want to take this call. It's Harry.'
'Great to hear from you,' Tweed began. 'Where
the devil are you? Hobartshire? Could you repeat
that?'
Paula had already returned to her desk with her cut
ting. She hauled out a map from a desk drawer,
waited.
It was a long conversation. Most of the time Tweed
was scribbling data on a pad. Occasionally he said,
'Are you sure?' then he went on scribbling. Finally he
asked, 'If Paula and I left now could we get there by
lunchtime?'
'Yes, we could,' Paula called out.
'Did you say Gunners Gorge? Funny name,' Tweed
commented.
'Got it,' Paula called out again. 'Small town on the
River Lyne.'
'Can anyone hear this?' Tweed asked. 'Oh, you're
on your mobile in a field. Sounds secure enough. If
that's all, Paula and I will be starting out in five min
utes. You've done well, Harry. Exceptionally well. See
you . . .'
Tweed replaced the phone. His expression con
cealed the relief, the excitement he was feeling. He
looked round the room at the members of his team.
'I sense this is the breakthrough we've been patiently
waiting for. Patiently? Didn't apply to me. I apologize
to all of you for my flashes of temper yesterday. Now,
Harry. He has tracked Falkirk to - of all places -
Hobartshire. To what he called the weirdest of small
towns - Gunners Gorge. He's booking suites for Paula
and me at a good hotel, the Nag's Head. All the data
is on this pad, which I'll leave with Monica. If I need
reinforcements, you all have Paula's mobile number.
Use that if something happens down there . . .'
As he was finishing speaking he jumped up, put on his camel-hair coat. Paula had already picked up two suitcases kept for emergency departures, one for her
self, one for Tweed. She was striding to the door when
Tweed relieved her of his own case and Pete Nield
spoke.
'You don't know what you're walking into. I sug
gest you travel in the second Audi parked at the
back. The one with armourplate on the body and
armoured glass in the windows. Harry has souped up
the engine.'
'Good thinking. I agree,' Tweed replied.
'I'll come down the back way with you - I've got the
keys,' Pete added.
'Then,' Paula remarked, 'with the Audi the wrong people associate with us left parked out at the front
they'll think we're still here.'
'More good thinking,' Tweed agreed.
Paula took the wheel, saying she knew the route. After
crawling through the dense traffic of London, she
drove faster through the suburbs, then accelerated as
they reached the countryside. They were on a wide
country road and Paula sighed with pleasure.
'Oh, this is wonderful. Away from the stench of
petrol, the noise, young girls with mobiles pressed to
their ears who walk into you, the pointless rush and bustle.'
'And the scenery,' Tweed added.